The Wish Collector

by Mia Sheridan

  Jonah turned his good eye toward her, straining to see the expression on her pretty face. Awe, he thought. Yes, the look on her face was full of wonderment as if she were gazing upon some place of worship. And damn if he didn’t feel jealous of the inanimate structure.

  Clara returned her gaze to Myrtle and smiled warmly as she waved, slipping through the gate on the side of the property as Myrtle latched it behind her. The sound was lonely, reminding Jonah of the empty day that stretched before him.

  A moment later, Jonah heard a car moving away, taking Clara home. He watched as Myrtle ambled back to the house, talking to herself as she walked.

  And despite his mundane thoughts about hiding in the trees, his heart rejoiced. Clara knew of his scars and cared for him anyway. And God, it had felt so good to be held. To feel her softness against him, to listen to the sounds of her breathing as she’d slept. And yet it unsettled him too.

  He had thought that to watch her dance once would sustain him all the rest of his long, lonely days—but in fact, it had done the opposite. It had made him long for more. So yes, Cecil was right. He pined. God damn, but he pined. It was a constant pang throbbing in his veins.

  And now, to have the memory of her arms around him, his name on her lips as she drifted into dreams, it just increased his longing for life, for her, for things he could never have.

  He put his hands in the pockets of his sweatshirt, feeling the small, smooth card within. He brought it out, staring at the information printed on it. Who knew gang members had business cards? Just a name and an address and the memory of the offer the man named Ruben with the obvious prison tattoos on his face had made: “You ever need a night gig, masked man, you call me. We could use you.” And then he’d laughed, but it hadn’t been unkind. In fact, it’d been laced with respect, and it had made Jonah feel damn good, despite that a moaning Clara lay limply in his arms, and he’d needed to get her someplace safe.

  Speaking of which . . . he’d have to have Myrtle or Cecil come with him to collect his motorcycle later. Once he’d determined Clara was still too out of it to ride behind him safely, he’d called them to pick them up, leaving the bike chained up where he’d secured it after following Clara’s bus.

  Jonah sighed, stepping out of the trees and tipping his face to the bruised sky. It was going to rain.

  He walked to the wall, laying his palm on the solid stone. Right there was where it’d all started to change. And he still couldn’t decide if the change that had begun in him was a good thing or would bring nothing but deeper misery in the end.

  Several feet away he heard the sound of footsteps on the other side of the wall and then a male sigh just before a piece of paper was slipped between one of the cracks, landing on the dewy grass.

  The man’s footsteps moved away, the sound of a car starting up and then driving in the opposite direction meeting Jonah’s ears a minute later.

  The ink was already bleeding because of the dew it’d landed in as Jonah unfolded it carefully, reading the wish.

  “I wish I had a reason not to jump from the CCC tonight. Anything. Just anything.” Christ. The CCC.

  The Crescent City Connection, the bridge that spanned the Mississippi River, connecting downtown New Orleans to the West Bank. He’d driven it often when he’d lived a normal life.

  Jonah leaned against the wall, swearing it trembled beneath his weight. The ancient thing was getting so old, it would probably crumble at the barest of touches one of these days.

  He fingered the message, putting it in his pocket and then bringing it out along with Ruben’s card.

  Some guy was planning to jump off a bridge tonight and was looking for a reason—any reason—not to. Jonah thought about that, thought about the fact that if anyone knew how destitute a person could feel, how hopeless and clueless about their own place in the world, it was him.

  He’d considered—maybe not strongly, but still—ending his own life a time or two, but Myrtle and Cecil’s relentless love and care of him had stopped him from considering it too closely. He’d had that. He’d had them, and gratitude suddenly spiked within his chest so fiercely that it caused a physical pang. A tightening.

  Maybe Justin had been right when he’d often said that there was always something to be grateful for. He’d written off half the things Justin said—he was practically religious in his optimism and it had, frankly, annoyed Jonah. But . . . well. Maybe that one held some truth.

  Would he have actually survived this long without Myrtle and Cecil? Had their unwavering belief in him been an unnamed consolation within his grief and anger and pain? And this man has nothing.

  Yet.

  In any case, how negligent would Jonah be if he didn’t do something to try and stop a man from ending his own life? He stood there for another moment, considering, and then pushed off the wall.

  He had plans tonight after all.

  **********

  Eddy stared at the churning water below. Fear rumbled through him, but not loud enough to quiet the roaring emptiness that gaped open like a festering wound inside of his soul. The emptiness that felt vast and unending, a black hole of pain.

  He’d have thought emptiness would dull his senses, but no, it seemed to make everything sharper, more piercing somehow. He couldn’t live with it any longer. He just wanted it to end. And that water below was going to do just that. Drown out the noise, the hurt, the memories, and yes, the breath from his lungs . . . because he couldn’t see another way.

  He wanted to. He wished he had something, some form of hope that things could get better. He’d even gone to that stupid wall, which was, well, stupid. But nothing was going to change, and he couldn’t face another day of this never ending agony.

  “Pretty far drop.”

  He sucked in a startled breath of exhaust and river-water-scented air, gripping the metal bar in his hand more tightly as he turned his head.

  “S-step back,” Eddy demanded in a voice that sounded less than commanding.

  He’d chosen a spot that was out of sight of the cars driving by on the bridge. How had this guy spotted him?

  The older black man wearing a leather vest and a dark bandana around what appeared to be a completely bald head didn’t flinch and didn’t move back. In fact, he stepped forward, his eyes locked on Eddy’s. “You’re a Marine.”

  “Was,” Eddy said. He wasn’t sure why he’d put on his uniform before going out there. It’d seemed to make sense at the time. He should have died on that stretch of desert highway half a world away like all six of his buddies did, but instead, he’d been saved for some unfathomable reason that brought him nothing but regret. So he’d die in his uniform after all, even if his death would be by his own hand.

  “Yeah,” the man sighed, as if he’d understood far more than was contained in that singular word. “It’s never really past tense though, is it?”

  He leaned against the giant metal support, putting his hands in his pockets as if this were a situation he came across every day of the week and therefore wasn’t fazed in the least.

  Eddy tilted his head, taking the guy in. He was probably in his sixties, but still muscular. He obviously stayed in shape, and his attire made him look like some kind of biker.

  Eddy couldn’t read the patches sewn onto the front of his vest from where he stood, but he assumed they spoke of whatever organizations he belonged to. Belonged to. The words rung in his head and he wasn’t sure why. They made him wince. They made him yearn. “You were a Marine too?”

  “Yup. Came back from Vietnam in sixty-nine. Stood right where you are now more than once.”

  “You tried to jump off a bridge?”

  The man chuckled though there was something painful in it. “Nah. Drugs and alcohol were my ledges.”

  “Oh.” Eddy turned toward the water again, looking into that swirling vastness once more. It looked choppier than it had before. Colder, darker.

  “Thing is,” the guy said from behind him. Eddy looked back at him again.
“Thing is, we could use a guy like you. A retired soldier who’s already trained.”

  Eddy frowned. “Use me for what?”

  “The Brass Angels.”

  “You’re a Brass Angel?” Eddy had heard of them. They were a volunteer crime-fighting force in New Orleans who patrolled high-crime neighborhoods.

  “I’m the head of the New Orleans chapter as a matter of fact.” The man moved closer. “Name’s Augustus Bryant.”

  “Eddy Woods.” Augustus took another step closer, reaching his hand out to shake.

  Eddy reached out tentatively, taking it. Augustus gripped his hand and though his hand was being held tightly, something inside of Eddy loosened. Eddy pulled in a huge breath.

  “Come on down, Eddy. Maybe we can talk about how you can fit with us.”

  Eddy paused for the fraction of a moment, recalling the wish he’d made earlier that day. The wish he’d called stupid a few minutes ago. I wish I had a reason not to jump from the CCC tonight. Anything.

  Anything, he’d asked for. Well this was something wasn’t it? Hell, it felt like something. It felt like the first something in a long, long time, maybe since that day he’d seen his buddies blown to smithereens in front of his face. That day when he’d stood up with nary a scratch on him as the blood of the men he’d been laughing with moments before rained down from the sky to drench the sand in shades of scarlet death.

  Eddy gripped Augustus’s hand and stepped down from the ledge. Augustus didn’t let go.

  “I know, man. I do. Feels like it’s too painful to live in a world where God allows things to happen like what you’ve seen. Nothing makes sense. No purpose.”

  “Yes,” Eddy said, something else unknotting inside of him, making him feel weak.

  “Yeah,” Augustus said. “Yeah.” He looked straight into his eyes. “There’s light in the darkness, man. I promise you. And you’re going to be a part of it. There’s no one better than you to be a part of it.”

  Eddy swiped at the tears that had filled his eyes, suddenly so overwhelmed with gratitude for the trickle of hope moving swiftly through him that he could only nod.

  “Come on out, guys,” Augustus called, and Eddy’s head whipped to the side where two men emerged. As they stepped from the shadows, Eddy’s heart jolted. One of them was wearing a skeleton mask that covered half his face.

  “What the fuck?” Eddy muttered.

  Augustus chuckled. “That’s what I thought too.” He gestured to the man without the mask, the man who didn’t look much less sinister with the tattoos marking up his face. “That’s Ruben.” Then he pointed to the guy wearing the skeleton facade. “And that’s Jonah.”

  Jonah walked forward and shook Eddy’s hand. “I’m glad to meet you, Eddy.” There was something in his eyes, some deep solemnity. Eddy didn’t know the exact reason why, but he bet any guy who went around wearing a mask had some kind of story to tell.

  “Jonah.”

  Augustus smiled, putting one hand on Jonah’s shoulder, and one on Eddy’s. He looked at them, something that looked like pride shining from his knowing eyes. “We’ve got ourselves a kickass team.”

  Eddy laughed. Nothing about him felt kickass, but something about the motley crew surrounding him offered quiet calm. And he could live with that. He could live with that.

  **********

  “How are you, Jonah?”

  “I’m good.” He smiled as he swiped the rain that had fallen earlier that evening off the garden bench and sat, leaning back and wiping his wet palm on his sweatshirt.

  “You sound good. I can hear it in your voice.”

  He leaned his head back, closing his eyes to the stars, bringing the memory of her lips to the forefront of his mind.

  That achy pulsing took up in his veins, and he supposed he should hate it—hate that it signified what he couldn’t have—but he couldn’t manage to do it in that moment. He felt too good, too filled with something that felt dangerously like hope.

  Jonah heard something that sounded like a drawer opening and closing. “Are you just getting home?”

  Clara sighed. “Yeah. Late practice. When I get off the phone with you, I’m going to take a hot shower and then fall face first into bed.”

  He couldn’t let himself think too much about that hot shower and less about Clara in bed, but the face first thing made him think of her fall. “How’s your head?”

  “Better. I had a bit of a headache earlier today, but a couple more Tylenol took care of it.”

  She paused for a moment. “Jonah, I didn’t ask why you were following me last night. I don’t mind,” she rushed on, “in fact, I’m grateful you were, but . . . well, why? Why do you follow me?”

  Jonah opened his eyes, his gaze moving between the stars that made up the big dipper.

  It was so clear tonight, so vibrant, and bright. Those stars, they’d watched it all unfold, every story since the beginning of time. He wondered how many times their hearts had been broken by what they saw.

  “Because I want to be near you,” he said without considering his words. I crave you. I want to protect you.

  There was a small pause and Jonah’s heart jumped. He sat up, blinking. “I’ll stop,” he said, letting out an uncomfortable chuckle. “I wasn’t always this creepy. It’s just—”

  “Stop,” she said softly. “I want to be near you too. You don’t have to follow me anonymously. I want to be near you.”

  Jonah’s heart jumped again, this time with happiness, though that thread of disappointment, of the knowledge that he could never have more than what they had right that moment, pulled at his joy, making it feel tight and breakable.

  “Anyway,” she said, changing the subject, perhaps sensing that his thoughts were meandering toward bleakness, “I called because I looked through Justin’s folder during lunch today.”

  Justin’s folder. He loved that his brother was a real person to her, loved hearing her acknowledge him. “Yeah? What’d you find?”

  “Something interesting, actually. Do you know a lot about Reconstruction?”

  “The basics, I guess. That after the Union won the Civil War and millions of slaves were freed, there were lots of societal challenges.”

  “Yes. And did you know that the man Astrid Chamberlain married, Herbert Davies, was a champion for the rights of former slaves during that time?”

  Jonah frowned. “I didn’t know that, but I never knew a lot about Herbert Davies.”

  “Apparently, he was a prominent activist. I still need to read through all the information your brother printed, but what’s really interesting is that some of what I read implies that his wife, Astrid, worked alongside him in his efforts. There are letters included in the file where they trade ideas about his work.”

  “Huh,” he said. “I mean, it’s good to hear that one of my ancestors was on the side of right. But what do you take from all that?”

  “I don’t know yet.” Her voice was thoughtful. “I guess it speaks to Astrid’s later beliefs on the subject of slavery. And it makes me question what her role may have been in her stepsister’s tragedy. Nothing that I’ve heard, until this, indicated Astrid might have been sympathetic to Angelina’s circumstances, or that she might have disagreed with her family’s owning of slaves.”

  “Huh,” he said. Although in all honesty, Jonah couldn’t see how the information shed any more light on what may have happened so long ago in the very place where he was sitting.

  He glanced at the broken fountain, empty except for the small amount of accumulated rain and the leaves that had fallen into it and turned to muck. Right there. Right there was where Angelina had felt so barren of hope that she’d taken a razor blade to her own wrists. A tiny shiver went down his spine.

  “It’s just another piece of the puzzle, you know? I feel like . . . I feel like we’re getting close to something.”

  He loved the hopeful tone in her voice, the underlying excitement, and he wouldn’t dash that, but even if there were a mystery to
solve, how in the world would they confirm any of it?

  Too many decades had passed, too much evidence had turned to dust, and too many stories and truths had died along with those who’d carried them.

  “Thank you for helping me.”

  “I’m happy to.” And he was, despite his lack of belief that any of this would come to anything. But he’d damn near do anything for the girl on the other end of his phone.

  “I didn’t tell you about what the priestess I went to said.”

  Oh right. The priestess. He’d seen her enter that shop and waited in a doorway until she came out. “What’d she say?”

  Clara sighed. “She might have been a bit of a . . . well anyway, she gave me some good general information. You know how the legend says that Angelina is trapped at Windisle because she somehow became tangled in the curse put upon John?”

  “Yeah.”

  “The priestess, Fabienne, said that it isn’t how it works. Other people cannot become tangled in curses that aren’t put directly on them.”

  “Okay . . .”

  “So,” Clara said, speaking faster, that energy that made her eyes sparkle, filling her voice, “Fabienne guessed that if Angelina lingers at Windisle, it’s by choice. It’s because of John that she stays.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  Clara let out a breath. “The legend is wrong. There’s something about it that’s not accurate.”

  “What?”

  “That’s what we have to figure out. Why would Angelina choose to stay trapped for eternity, waiting endlessly for a man who betrayed her? It has to be important, Jonah. Angelina lived her life in chains—almost literally. She wouldn’t choose to spend her afterlife in such a way if it wasn’t vital to her soul. Is she waiting for some sort of revenge? Or does she continue to love John despite his betrayal? There’s a reason she won’t leave him, Jonah, and we have to figure it out.

  “And for that matter, why does John linger at Windisle? Is it because Windisle is the place where the curse was placed upon him?” She paused. “Or,” the word rushed out on an excited breath, “is Windisle somehow involved in breaking it?”